


Coyotes and Vultures

by verushka70



Category: due South
Genre: Dark, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Hate Sex, Non-Canonical Violence, Rape/Non-con Elements, Undercover, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 20:19:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7698115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verushka70/pseuds/verushka70
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’d look good on your arm,” she points out. </p><p>“Like a hole in my head.”  He sights down the barrel of the gun at her, and makes a decision.  It's what she deserves, and Armando doesn’t hesitate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coyotes and Vultures

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by the awesome [Ride_Forever](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ride_Forever). TYK! All remaining mistakes are mine alone.
> 
> Not sure if this is bad!Vecchio or just Vecchio-embracing-Armando... but it's dark, twisted, and explicit.

“You clear my schedule for the next hour?”

“Yeah, boss.”

“You sent the numbers to Donny?”

“Yeah, did that too.”

“And you brought up one of Frank’s girls?”

“She’s outside.”

“Forward the phone to yours,” Armando Langoustini said, removing his suit jacket in a fine, burgundy silk. “Bring her in here, then send her into my inner office, in” – he checks his Rolex – “exactly five minutes.” He pauses. “If I go over an hour, just delay or reschedule who ever’s next.”

He goes into the inner office, his inner sanctum as it were – more a spot to sleep in with a kitchenette than an office. He mostly only uses it when a fight runs too long and he’s up late, collecting and counting the take. 

Or for moments like this. Perk of being Armando.

It takes him exactly five minutes to piss, splash on some aftershave (he shaved in the morning), scrutinize himself in the mirror (looking good) and fix himself a dirty martini. He unbuttons his cuffs and the top three buttons of his shirt. He is rolling his sleeves up when he hears noise in the outer office. 

“Come in here,” Armando calls. 

He turns his back to the door – no worries; Vito’s out there – and faces the view from this inner office. It is as good or better than the view from his outer office – if you like the non-stop kaleidoscope that is the Strip. It’s not even the good Strip – the 1960s-70s Strip from when Ray was a kid and his dad had to come here at least once a year, when Vegas was sleazy and not at all family friendly. The good ol’ days. It’s still sleazy; it’s just hidden beneath a veneer of family friendliness now.

He hears the door behind him shut, and doesn’t turn around immediately. “Fix yourself a drink, if you want,” he suggests. 

He doesn’t need to know what she looks like. They all look more or less the same, because Vito or Frank always get the same type of girl for him. He never said her name (Irene). He described her to Vito and Frank once. If there’s one thing Vegas is good at, it’s facsimiles of the real thing: Elvis impersonators, Marilyn Monroe look-alikes, pretend Rat Packers. So he described her just a little off, so they didn’t get someone who looked too much like her. That would be... creepy. 

He hears ice clink in a glass, pouring from first one bottle, then another, then the little fridge opening. When he hears her sipping, that’s when he turns around.

Her glass hits the floor almost the same time she hits the door. The half inch she got open, Ray’s body slams shut with a thud as he hits it.

She goes for his face with her nails, but he gets her by the wrists and twists them behind her as he backs her up against the door. Friends, close; enemies, closer.

She hasn’t made a sound yet, except for the sharp, quick breaths she pants through those fine, flared nostrils. He feels them on his upper lip, his mouth, his chin.

“Victoria,” he breathes.

She slows her breath; a bitter smile turns up the corners of her lips but not her eyes. 

“Ray Vecchio. Fancy meeting you here. I bet Vito would love to know all about your past life.” She struggles quietly as she speaks. But he has her wrists in a vise grip behind her ass. It makes her back arch and presses her breasts against his chest.

“Just like the Feds, and everyone at the 27th who ever knew Fraser, would like to catch you,” he grits out. “Especially me.” He presses harder against her.

“Fraser, your best friend? The one you shot in the back? ‘Beloved Mountie in critical condition,’ the paper said. You did that, not me.” 

She looks him in the eye with nothing but hate. Her breasts move against his chest as she vainly struggles. It’s distracting, but not distracting enough. 

“I was aiming at you. I’d do it again if there was a snowball’s chance in hell I’d hit you.”

“Is he okay?”

“Do you care?” he sneers.

“I care,” she says, and stops struggling. “Did he ever clear his name?” 

“Officially unsolved,” Ray unwillingly admits. 

“At least he was never convicted and imprisoned,” she mutters softly.

“Whatever you got back then, you deserved – and then some,” Ray snarls in her face. Her breasts still press against him. It’s not like he likes it or anything. He just has to keep her hands tight behind her back.

“I just wanted him to get a little taste of it,” she growls. “I wouldn’t have hurt him – not like you did.” 

He ignores that. “We can solve it right now, if you want to help him out.” As if. 

“Then bye-bye Armando,” she smirks. 

“It. Would. Be. Worth it,” Ray says slowly and evenly. He means every fucking syllable.

“Worth throwing away all this? And the federal case you must be working on?” She smiles; this time it almost reaches her eyes. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t, huh?” He walks her backwards to the love seat like some awkward dance, still holding her wrists behind her, pressed up against her. He finally releases her wrists and throws her roughly down onto it. 

“Then you don’t know me very well,” he says standing over her.

“You? Or Armando?”

“Doesn’t matter, where you’re concerned.” 

For the first time, her tough-girl mask slips for a second – but only a second. She has some kind of black burnout velvet mini-dress on. Her hair’s up, pearls around her neck, black leather Italian heels with big straps and buckles around her slim ankles. Make-up, mostly understated, dark eyes, glossy lips.

She’s stunning. 

Frankie manages nothing but the highest high-class escorts. They have a bunch of condominiums with fantastic views – not as good as Armando’s – where the girls take in-calls. They do out-calls only to high-end hotels, for all the foreign businessmen who love to take meetings in Las Vegas. 

“So this is where you wound up,” he sneers, leaning down and wrapping a hand around her throat. “Figures you’d wind up a high class whore.”

“So this is where you wound up,” she counters, eyes flashing angrily, but not making a move. “Figures, a wanna-be, two-bit gangster.” 

She is magnificently in control, he has to give her that. 

“A two-bit gangster with the Feds behind him,” he smiles, and knows it is a cruel one. “I’m gonna enjoy this.”

He slides his hand down her throat to tuck two fingers between her skin and the pearl necklace. He wonders for a split second if they’re real pearls. Doubts it.

With one brutal yank, the string breaks, spilling pearls all over her dress, the love seat, the carpeted floor. It feels good, so good, to watch her tremble. 

He has successfully resisted the urge to call Chicago, call everyone – call anyone – in the past few minutes so far. So far. Now, standing over her, he thinks of Fraser. The one person he can’t (won’t) think about: if Fraser knew the things Armando does – 

“How is Fraser?” she asks, her control of her voice just barely wavering. “Is he all right?”

“Do I look,” he begins as he unbuckles his belt, “like I know how Fraser is?” 

She doesn’t answer. The belt hisses through his belt loops and hits the floor. 

He leans down to her again, and she flinches back. He takes her face in both his hands. 

“Don’t worry. I’m not usually violent with women,” he whispers. “Not as Ray.” He pauses. “But your ‘date’ is with Armando.”

He runs his fingers through her hair, yanking through bobby pins like the ones Frannie used for spit-curls. He yanks through hair spray. He pulls her hair out of its sophisticated up-style with his fingers, clawing through it. 

Her black hair comes tumbling down, messed and tangled, curls in a halo around her head and neck. It makes her look like a goddess and demon, like Medusa. Loose pearls still sit in her lap. The burnout velvet mini-dress worked its way up to the tops of her thighs when he threw her down. The tops of her black stockings and the bottoms of black garters with tiny lavender flowers are exposed.

He steps back, unbuttoning his pants button. Never taking his eyes from her – as she tracks him around the small area – he steps to the kitchenette, opens a cabinet door, rummages a bit, and then pulls out a gun. 

She pales. He is starting to enjoy this. 

It’s the kind of gun she used, now that he thinks about it – a revolver. He walks across the room to the door and locks it, still watching her. Only then does he check the chambers: yep, all full. Six nice big bullets if she gets any ideas. 

Funny; he thought Armando would be armed to the teeth all the time. He wasn’t; his guys were. Ray carried a gun more as a cop than a gangster. 

He walks back towards her with the gun in his right hand. She doesn’t move, but curls of her hair shake slightly, almost imperceptibly. He cocks the gun next to her head and watches her nostrils twitch like a rabbit’s. 

“See this?” he asks, standing over her again.

She nods. Maybe she can’t speak.

“I could shoot you here, right now. No one will say anything, even if they think I don’t have a good reason. I don’t need a reason. No one doubts me. I’m Armando Langoustini.” He gestures dismissively with the gun.

“They’ll put your body in the trunk of a car and drive it out to the desert. They won’t even bury it. They’ll leave your body out to bake and bloat in the sun, out for coyotes and buzzards to eat.” 

Her lips have become a thin line. He leans down into her personal space, gets literally in her face, nose to nose. 

“No one will ever know what really happened to Victoria Metcalf and her sister.” Still holding the gun, he straightens up and gestures at his shirt. “It’s so tragic.” 

She slowly raises her hands to unbutton his shirt. 

“Both girls are gone,” he continues. “One dead in a terrible car accident in Alaska, the other one eaten up by Vegas.”

His shirt unbuttoned, he straightens up and shrugs out of it, switching the gun slowly and carefully from hand to hand, never losing his aim at her head, as each sleeve comes off. The shirt falls to the floor at his feet. He leaves his sleeveless undershirt on. He gestures again, this time at his fly. Her hands move slowly to unzip it. 

“Maybe someday, some outdoors-nut hiker finds some human bones. He alerts the authorities.” Fly unzipped, he gestures at his pants and the silk boxers beneath them with the gun. She draws them down slowly. His cock beats to life under her fast, shallow breaths. He tilts his head to one side and lifts a shoulder. 

“But they’ll never recover all the bones. Animals will scatter them, over a wide area. Scavengers. Desert’s full of ‘em.”

She sits motionless but tendrils of her hair continue their fine tremor, the only physical betrayal of her fear. 

“Don’t think for a second,” he whispers, “that I’ll spare you for Fraser. Whatever he may want, I know what’s best for him: you, dead.”

He puts the gun to her temple with one hand and grabs her chin with the other. 

“So you try anything – anything – I’ll blow your head off, with my dick in your mouth, and not think twice about it. Understand?” 

She nods quickly, eyes widening, darting away from his. He lets go of her chin and straightens up. 

“Now handle my balls,” he orders her. Her hands move to his testicles, and she rolls them in their sack. “Make it good,” he adds, moving his gun-free hand to the back of her head. Nothing like the fear of death to motivate. 

She opens her mouth just before he impales her face on his cock. He feels the resistance of the back of her throat as her gag reflex kicks in. He holds her by her wild, dark hair, and uses it to move her mouth up and down on his cock. He watches his cock disappear between her lips and then reappear, the long, slick shaft shiny with saliva. Her cheeks hollow each time he pulls out. Good, tight suction. 

He draws his pleasure out. Pulls her off him by the hair when he gets close. Nothing about this can go easy for her. Nothing. When he regains control, he shoves her face back down on his cock. He feels her neck muscles resist slightly, reflexively, but not enough to assert any kind of control. 

After he puts off orgasm twice, he decides to finish. He pulls out of her mouth once again. Deep-throating made her eyes tear. Her eye makeup and mascara are smeared, the edges of her nostrils shiny. 

She’d never cry. It wouldn’t work, anyway.

“Get on your knees,” he growls, holding her by the hair. He gestures with the gun. 

She slides off the loveseat onto her knees, pearls spilling from her lap onto the carpet. Her dress has hiked up more, revealing more of the garter belt and stockings. He wonders if she has panties on or nothing. 

He yanks her head back by the hair, forcing her to look up in his face. She does, eyes narrowing, filled with hate.

“You’ve been enthusiastic so far,” he taunts her. “Let’s see how you finish.”

For Fraser, he thinks; this is for Fraser. 

Fraser would never do any of this to her, but it's what she deserves and Armando doesn’t hesitate. He slams his cock back into her mouth and begins fucking her face fast and hard. More tears squeeze out of the corners of her eyes from his efforts. 

When he feels himself getting close, he lets go of her hair. She immediately pulls back off his cock, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. He switches the gun from his right hand to his left, and takes himself in his right hand.

“Open your mouth,” he orders as he puts the gun back to her temple with his left hand. “Don’t you dare close your eyes,” he adds, pressing the gun harder against her, looking her in the eye.

He jacks off, hard and fast, inches from her face. She steadily meets his gaze, impassive, wet, pink tongue in her open mouth, waiting.

When he feels it start, he keeps the gun barrel against her head. He gasps as he comes. With every spurt, he feels more and more triumphant. It hits her open mouth, chin, across her lips, on her cheeks. She blinks reflexively but doesn’t break his gaze, eyes glittering. 

“Wipe your face with your hand,” he commands, breathless. She slides a hand across her cheeks, chin, mouth to wipe away the semen. “Lick it,” he growls. 

She hesitates, but he pushes the gun harder against her temple. 

“My left hand’s not as good with a gun as my right,” he says.

She hurriedly licks her hand. 

He grabs her by the hair again, and drags her up off the floor. He steps out of his pants and boxers and sits down on the loveseat. He bends her over his lap and shoves her dress up. She’s wearing black lace panties over the garter belt. He uses the gun muzzle in the furrow between her buttocks to pull the panties down. She flinches at the feel of cold metal and looks balefully over her shoulder at him.

“Does Fraser know this about you?” she taunts him. 

He admires her spirit, but slaps her ass hard and mean – none of that playful crap – and jams the gun muzzle into the back of her head. 

“You want my belt, too? Just keep talking back.” 

She turns away and doesn’t look back at him again. He slides her panties down to her knees with his gun-free hand. Then he slips that hand between her buttocks, feeling the fringe of hair. Her lips are slippery; he thrusts a finger in. She’s hot, so hot, and very wet.

“This shit gets you excited.” It's accusation and exultation, despite awareness of his own hypocrisy. 

She says nothing, but when he slips his slick fingers farther forward, over the nub of her clit, she gasps softly. He rubs around it in circles until she is squirming. He slides his fingers back to thrust them inside where’s she’s slick and hot and gripping him, now. He fucks her that way until she is squirming again. Then he stops and slips a finger forward to circle her nub again, slow, with hard pressure. She shudders. He pulls his fingers back, dipping them into the usual hole just a second. Then, farther back, he pushes one finger into her tightest passage. She lurches. He works it in and out, slowly probing her, loosening her. She grips him like fine leather gloves, hot, tight, velvet. He adds another finger and she cries out, from pleasure or pain, he doesn’t know and doesn’t care. He’s getting hard again, feels it pressing up against her over his lap.

He pulls his fingers out and she exhales forcefully through her teeth. 

“Get up,” he says, and pulls her up by the back of her dress. 

She obeys, stonily silent. He stands and throws her down on the loveseat again, dress hiked to her waist, panties around her knees, stocking and garters the icing on the cake. He looks down at her, at the wet curls between her slightly parted legs. 

He decides what she would hate most is not him fucking her, but her enjoying it. He leans over her as she glares up at him. 

“Move your ass to the edge of the cushion,” he demands. She does. “Knees up. Spread your legs.” She slips her panties off and obeys.

He kneels and bends his face to her sex, forcing one leg back until her knee is at her armpit. The gun in his left hand points at her face, his finger on the trigger. Her musky scent wafts up and his mouth waters involuntarily. He shoves her other thigh back.

He brushes her clit with his mustache and she hisses a breath out. He licks the nub of her clit once. She’s salty and tangy and he never does this with the other girls. But this is different. 

He licks harder, faster, pausing only to rub his mustache back and forth over it. She seems to hold her breath. With his gun-free right hand, he barely penetrates both holes, with just his fingertips. He keeps licking her, hard, rough, fast. His thumb and index finger grasp the thin wall of flesh between both holes, rubbing together like he’s fingering expensive fabric. Both holes tighten up around his fingers. She moans through gritted teeth. 

Yes. This. She’ll hate him for this. 

He keeps it up, licking her, rubbing his mustache over her when his tongue needs a rest, fingering and stroking and occasionally tugging her between his thumb and forefinger. She reflexively tightens and then releases, as if she suddenly realized what she did, and doesn’t want to. But she soon starts squirming again and he feels her getting close, closer– 

“Shit,” she gasps. Her clit swells beneath his tongue and she tightens down on him like a finger trap. He switches from licking to sucking her clit – holds it between his teeth and smashes his lips around it for a good seal, for hard suction, thrumming his tongue across it. He keeps rubbing his fingers together, tugging and stroking the flesh between both holes. She tightens up around both fingers, hard, rhythmically, tight, tight, tight. Her whole body starts to buck and shudder.

“Fuck,” she half moans and half sobs between clenched teeth. Her body shudders and her clit twitches between his teeth, under his tongue, both holes gripping his fingers tight. He is hard again, rock hard, listening to her come against her will. 

For the first time, she uses her hands. Slippery with sweat, they slide over his bald head, try to push his face off her sex. The tangle of her long limbs tries to shove him away. But he is between them, and hard, and still has his gun arm up against one leg. She looks at him with glittering hate in her eyes as he pulls his fingers out of her. He elbows her other leg out of the way and grips his cock to push inside her. 

As he gets the head in, he realizes she’s even wetter now, hotter, engorged. The tight, firm grip on his cock is unbelievable, but yielding, soft and hot. He holds back her free leg with a hand behind her knee and shoves himself the rest of the way in, to the hilt. She moans softly and bucks again, closing her eyes.

“Open your eyes,” he orders her. 

She doesn’t obey. He roughly yanks her and they tumble to the carpeted floor. Her eyes open, then squeeze shut tight as he fucks her. The gun is next to her head as he props himself up over her. 

“Do as you’re told,” he pants and smacks her with his gun-less hand. 

Her eyes open, then slit as she looks at him. But her sex grips him tighter. Down on the floor he fucks her harder and faster. Inarticulate sounds of rage and pleasure come out between her clenched teeth. He drills her so hard and so fast, he’s sure he’ll have rug burns on his knees and she will on her back. 

She comes again, thrashing, and reaches up to grab him by the throat. He wonders if she forgot he has a gun on her, but she slides her hand down to the front of his sleeveless undershirt. She grabs it and pulls him down into a deep, wet kiss, spasming around his cock. 

He yelps as she bites his tongue. But it’s the bite that pushes him over the edge. He feels the wave inside crest, inevitable, the moments before this second orgasm more excruciating than the first. He feels every pulse as it rises and explodes out of him, into her. He thrusts into her brutally hard, as deep as he can go, and holds himself there for the last few agonizing spurts. She spasms around him again as his own spurts slow. Though he’s as deep in as he can be, he thrusts hard into her again, ramming her. She does it again, this time with a whimper. Her eyes are closed, defeated.

He collapses on her, catching his breath. When his panting has slowed, he pulls out of her slowly. 

He still has the gun in his hand. It seems absurd, now, somehow. He stands up at the same time as she does. 

“Go clean yourself up,” he tells her, gesturing at the small bathroom off the kitchenette. She heads in that direction, but pauses when he adds, “Leave the door open.” 

He’s taking no chances with her. She leaves the door open. She looks down and he glances up to see her sit on the toilet. He looks away but hears her piss. Then the toilet flushes and he hears water run in the sink. He grabs for his boxers and pants, but is suddenly too tired to put them on. He sinks down onto the loveseat covered in sweat, his sleeveless undershirt soaked with it. 

A moment later she comes out, towel in hand. Her hair is up again, not as perfect as it was when she arrived. She walks over to him and drops the towel in his lap without looking at him or speaking. He towels off where she wet him, wiping his inner thighs. She steps to the small bar where she fixed her drink earlier, and picks up her clutch purse. 

He is across the room with the gun at her throat before she pulls out what she was looking for. She holds it up. Lipstick. 

“Jumpy much?” 

“Careful,” he replies. Whether he’s reminding himself or her, he’s not sure.

She pulls out a compact and walks over to the loveseat. Sitting, she re-applies her lipstick.

He is unsure what to say. He’s been in control the entire time, but it feels like she’s gained ground, though he is the only one with a gun. Maybe because he has no pants on. He crosses the room and grabs his boxers and pants. He puts them on awkwardly, refusing to put down the gun. She takes the opportunity to speak after re-applying her lipstick.

“So now what?” she asks bluntly. 

“You rat me out, remember?” he smiles thinly. “And then I rat you out. Mutual assured destruction.”

She shakes her head slowly. “I have a better idea.”

“Sure you do.” He can’t believe her nerve.

“We both go on like we were. No one rats anyone out.”

“Why would I believe you?” He chuckles sarcastically. “You’d rat me out the second you leave here.” The gun is a comforting weight in his left hand. 

“For what?” she asks reasonably. “I always wanted to be a gangster’s moll.”

He shakes his head. “No openings at the moment.” He switches hands with the gun, and it feels good in his right hand, his gun hand.

“I’d look good on your arm,” she points out. 

“Like a hole in my head.” He sights down the barrel of the gun at her. 

She doesn’t flinch or look away, face calm, meeting his gaze. He makes a decision, though it’s probably a dumb one. 

“Get the hell out,” he says and walks to the door, unlocks it, opens it. “Before I change my mind.” 

He can still shoot her, he thinks.

She shrugs and stands, adjusting her dress. “You know where I’ll be.”

“Yeah, I know,” he tells her, watching her come toward him and the open door. “Remember: coyotes and vultures.” 

She tightens her lips and nods briefly, a strangely courteous farewell, before walking through the door. He shuts and locks it behind her.

Bitch.

* * *

Vito brings her to him two nights later. 

“Thought I’d see you again,” is all she says when he opens the door. She’s got a similar dress on this time, but in a burgundy color, with matching heels.

“Got a proposition,” he begins.

He walks over to the little bar to fix a drink, keeping her always in his line of sight. 

“Something that could reduce your sentence if you confess everything.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “Confess what? I’m not interested. Freedom suits me best.”

“You’d see Fraser again.” 

Her masks slips, and for a moment Ray can see the young woman who fell in love with the Mountie who arrested her. The vulnerable tremble of her upper lip, the flare of a nostril, her tightened grip on her clutch purse, all hint at the impossible, impetuous, enduring and hopeless love. 

Then her tough expression falls like a curtain. She shrugs. “Pretty sure he doesn’t want to see me – ever again.” 

“He doesn’t blame you.” 

“Like hell he doesn’t.”

“He blames himself.”

That makes her smile slightly, dreamily, and this time it reaches her eyes. Of course it does. He walks over and hands her the drink. She takes a long, slow sip as she looks up, eyeing him coolly as he stands over her. Then she sets her drink down.

“What would I have to do?” she finally asks.

Bait and set.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I have no explanation for this. The muse led me down this twisted path _years_ ago. It sat on my hard drive/cloud space; I sporadically refined it over the years and tried to figure out what to do with it or why it poured out of me in the first place. Still don't have a clue to either, but it is what it is, so why not archive it.


End file.
